Killing Time
by Bella The Strange
Summary: Dexter finds himself in Cardiff. Contains spoilers for Dexter season 2 and Torchwood season 1.
1. You Are Not Alone

x x x

**Killing Time**

x x x

**Disclaimer**: The usual, I don't own anything, nobody said I owned anything, you can't prove I own anything.

**SPOILER WARNING**: CONTAINS SOME SPOILERS FOR DEXTER SEASON 2, AND THE TORCHWOOD EPISODE COUNTRYCIDE.

x x x

**Chapter 1: "You Are Not Alone"**

x x x

Europe isn't so bad. A cruise, even. Have to keep up the pretense of enjoying myself, after all.

With Lila out of the way, the best part is over, really.

And now we're making port in Wales. Lila's 'British humor' had insinuated it was a terrible place for tourists, but who am I to take her advice? The cruise company certainly didn't.

I'm already bored. Germany was a waste of my time, and Spain had been horrible.

Maybe I should look for something more interesting, with this stop.

I've got two days. Probably shouldn't waste them.

x x x

The tourist office could barely call itself that.

Outdated posters, local newspaper cuttings from three years ago. If I were to be paranoid about it, I'd think someone didn't want me here.

Considering my past, perhaps paranoid is best.

Just as I'm turning to leave, a young man appears from the side door. He looks stressed, and in a bit of a rush. "Sorry, sir, we're closing." he says, without even looking at me.

He's shuffling papers, attempting to tidy the untidiable mess on the desk.

"I won't be a minute." I say quickly, "I just wanted a recommendation on good bars in the area."

The man pauses, looks up at me. He must have noticed the accent, his demeanor changed in an instant. Professional mask sliding into place. To a layman, it had always been there.

When he meets my eyes I see suspicion. Discomfort. He knows there's something off about me. But then he rattles off a list of 'good' and 'half-decent' pubs, clubs and bars around the bay. A picture of professionalism and calm.

But I still see it in his eyes.

I thank him, and leave. No sense wasting both our time pretending to care, or pretending not to be the monster he clearly saw I was.

I check Google Maps. Find a bar he didn't name.

Not good. Not half-decent. Hopefully I'll find someone worth my time there.

x x x

It's refreshing to see not all British people can recognize my 'dark passenger'. That terrible secret I try so hard to hide. Then again, they all seem equally false and overly polite, just like the man in the tourist office.

Good manners are so hard to find, that's what they say. Well apparently not here.

Even in the not good, not half-decent pub. The doorman is firm, but still employs 'please's and 'thank you's and 'have a nice night's to all around him. It's easy to see his real self is more interested in sports and bar fights, but still, he wears manners like a cloak.

They all do.

It almost feels like I'm not alone.

Almost.

The bar is crowded, the lights too low. It's hardly a conductive work environment, even for a monster like me.

Still, we all make do with what we have.

I take a seat at the bar and order a drink. Local beer. Never let it be said that I don't try new things occasionally.

My tools are in my backpack, which sits next to me on the floor of the bar, shoulder-strap wrapped around my ankle to be sure. Hidden beneath a pile of innocent enough clothing and a local map I picked up at the tourist office, which is no doubt out of date. If I find the need, I won't have a problem finding the time.

Of course, research is the key. It's very hard to catch a killer in the act, and without that I may have to do some legwork.

Would be worth it to relieve the monotony.

I watch those around me carefully. The long stare of one who isn't watching is a practiced art. To look right through others, but still see them. They don't give me a second glance.

Except for one.

"Looking for someone in particular?" Another American accent. Small world.

"More a type, really." I reply, with a practiced air of distraction. I don't look at him yet. If I do he might stay and get chatty.

I hate chatty people latching onto me when I'm working. In the office, in the field... or in the killing field.

It's all just noise to me.

The other man chuckles. Great, now he's not going to go away. He thinks I was joking.

"Any chance I could help?" he suggests. I can hear a solicitous tone in his voice. He wants something from me, though I can never quite tell what. Everyone wants something different.

I look at him, meet his eyes.

Perhaps he could help. I can see the darkness in him, the killer instinct, blazing through what anyone else might call innocent baby-blues.

A second look tells me he's about six feet tall, works out, and... is carrying a gun under his coat. In Britain.

Either police, or very brave _and_ stupid.

The latter would be nice.

I shrug, "Anything's possible."

"I'm Jack Harkness. And you are?" He offers me a hand to shake, a slightly too-charming smile across his face. It's hard to tell if he's like me and hasn't quite mastered the point where showing emotions becomes too much and a bit creepy, or he's genuinely an enthusiastic and extroverted person.

I accept the offered handshake. His grip is firm, but not aggressive.

"Rudy Cooper." What possessed me to use my brother's name? I must not be thinking clearly tonight.

"You don't sound local." Jack asks.

"Neither do you."

He chuckles again. Do I detect a falseness in the amusement? It gives me some hope that it might be worth getting to know him better.

"Yeah, I'm not from around here." he admits, "Then again, sometimes it feels like I've been here forever." An odd intonation. Was that wistful? Interesting.

"I'm just visiting for a few days." I concede. I don't like to lie unless I need to. It makes it easier to keep track when I do.

"Maybe I could show you some of the sights."

It's strange. I don't usually notice when someone's flirting with me. Not until it gets pointed out openly.

This man isn't being any less subtle than those I usually overlook. Yet it seems so blatant to me.

There's even a scent in the air. Almost... alluring.

Maybe if I had emotions.

"I think you might have misinterpreted what I said earlier."

Perhaps I said that a bit too quickly. He's giving me a suspicious look now. Calculating. I don't like that kind of look. It never leads to anything good.

"So... I'm not your type?" he asks, almost sly.

Now I didn't say that. I'm just using a different definition of the phrase.

"You're flirting with me?" I only ask for clarification. Jumping to conclusions never helps anyone. He nods, completely unashamed. "You're not my type, in that context. I'm sure we have other things in common, though."

He sits back, almost amused now. "Like what?"

Way to put my foot in it. What do I say to that?

But then suddenly, he looks up past me. Something else has caught his attention and, if his expression is anything to go by, his eternal loathing.

I don't turn to look. I'm more subtle than that. "What?" I ask.

Jack seethes with anger. It's like every fiber of his being wants to destroy what he just noticed behind me. If his line of sight is still on it, it just went and sat down in the corner, instead of approaching us.

I know the feeling I see in his eyes. It's righteous anger. I can't feel it myself, but I can recognize it clearly enough.

I lean forward, and place my hand on his right arm. The hand that had twitched briefly towards his gun a moment ago. "What is it?"

He seems to only just notice I'm still here.

But then he shakes off the anger, and hides behind a mask of smiles, "Just someone I know."

"What did they do?" I ask bluntly. No point hiding the fact I saw it. A child would have seen it.

He gives me a wary look, but then shrugs, "They're meant to be in prison."

Oh now, Jack Harkness, you have my complete attention.

"What for?"

He shakes his head, "It's a long story."

"You can tell me."

There's a strange way people like me have of reassuring others. I've never fully understood, but I think it might be the calm I project.

He doesn't seem so sure. Still, with a sigh he concedes to my well-practiced hopeful yet harmless expression, "A few weeks ago, I helped bring in a group of people who deserved to be locked away forever. Hell, in most other countries, they'd have been executed. She was one of them."

She. Interesting. I wouldn't have guessed, then again I try not to make assumptions, I'm an equal opportunities serial killer.

"What did they do?"

"Killed dozens of people. Waylaid them on the side of the road, and abducted them." I sense an 'and'.

"And...?"

"And butchered and ate them."

My eyebrows rise in surprise, but that's probably far less of a reaction than Jack expected. Cannibals. I've never killed a cannibal before. It might be therapeutic. Get the images of Lila's artwork out of my mind.

"You don't look that shocked?"

"I've heard of worse."

This was true. In my opinion, killing children is worse than killing and consuming adults. I've developed a scale, it helps me to prioritize, if I find more than one potential target at a time.

Now he looked extremely skeptical.

"I work for the police, in the US. Homicide. I do the lab work." Why do I feel the need to explain myself to this man. To justify my reaction?

"She probably got released because she played the innocent card. She fooled two of my team with it when they first met her."

I risked a glance over my shoulder, and saw precisely one female patron in that corner. Alone, with a wide berth left around her, probably due to her glare that could send most normal people running.

Good thing I'm not normal.

Looks like I've found my victim for the weekend.

x x x

Helen Sherman wasn't hard to find. She had been taken into police custody a few weeks ago. Three weeks and five days, to be precise.

Five arrests made, but Helen cried spousal abuse, unwilling accomplice, afraid of what her husband would do, etcetera. While it is truly a tragedy of our world that those words are so much more often true than false, Lila wasn't the first woman I've met who could spin the perceived persecution of her gender to her advantage.

And it looks like she won't be the last.

Dental records are so useful. I wonder why the arresting officers didn't look into it in more detail.

They had the evidence, they just didn't run the comparison. I'm not even in that line of forensics, but I got a positive match in under ten minutes.

Helen is as guilty as her husband.

x x x

The address Helen is staying at is listed with the local police department.

It's in a quiet neighborhood, mostly empty apartments. It's almost like she wanted me to do this. Well I certainly don't want to disappoint.

It's all so simple, so routine. So quick.

I sneak up behind her, wire around her neck until she passes out.

Prepare the kill room. I choose the kitchen. It seems appropriate, and it has a dining table just the right size for her body.

I pin up printouts of her known victims, downloaded from the police database. There are quite a few, though she's hardly my most prolific playmate.

I cut her cheek, and take my blood sample before she wakes. I don't feel like dealing with whimpers or cries of pain tonight.

I only want the kill.

She groans as she comes to, and begins to panic when she sees where she is. I take the cotton wool out of her mouth.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"I think you know what's about to happen."

I produce a meat cleaver from the plastic-coated counter. It's sharp enough, with the right weight behind it a single blow should decapitate cleanly. I'm growing to like the thought of poetic justice. Not only do I kill the killers, but now I do so in ways that fit their crimes.

First Brian, hung up to bleed out in his own kill room.

Santos Jimenez with the chainsaw.

Now this.

I really should make it a habit. Help to protect against my M.O. being found out again.

"You're going to kill me?" she asks, surprisingly sanguine.

I smile. A false smile, but a smile all the same. "It's nice to have a calm and rational conversation with a victim for a change."

She tries to spit at me. I don't think I'm going to get that rational conversation after all.

"We're all just meat in the end." she declares with anger.

"And I'm sure if I had feelings, I would be happy to inform you that every scrap of meat on your carcass shall be fish food. Eventually. Non-biodegradable bags, helps keep things clean, you understand. Still, not suitable for human consumption."

She looks positively hateful. I'm not sure if she genuinely believed she was top of the food chain and deserved to eat people and get away with it, or if she believed we were all monsters like her, and eventually another monster would consume her flesh as well.

On the bright side, at least a monster did catch up to her.

Eventually.

"Any last words, Helen?"

I hold the cleaver to her throat, ready to strike. Already anticipating the kill. Don't make me wait.

"It was worth it."

That's... disappointing.

Still I don't plan to stop now. I raise the cleaver high, and swing it down to her neck with full force.

I was right. Clean decapitation. Smooth stroke, very neat.

Blood spurting up the walls. It's good I plan ahead.

It takes ten beats, gradually weaker with each one, for her heart to stop.

And then I begin to clean up.

x x x

I tear down the last sheet of plastic, the one covering the door.

How did I miss that?

The door is wide open.

And Jack Harkness is standing in the doorway, watching me with... fascination.

"I'm not going to complain." he says, with a shrug of almost disinterest. "I would have done something worse to her."

"Worse than killing her?"

What can I do about him? He's a witness, I don't usually have those. Last time I did, my psychotic ex-girlfriend blew him up.

But then I killed her, so where do I get another miracle like that?

Perhaps he deserves it, as well?

But I need to be sure.

"I'd make her forget everything she ever was. It's just as irreversible, and sometimes downright funny."

"Seems like a poor use of society's resources." I mutter with distraction. I turn to finish cleaning up.

Jack doesn't seem like he's interested in stopping me.

After I finish packing away the tools and body parts, he approaches.

The room looks like it hasn't been touched. Spotless. "You're efficient. I like that."

I've always been a very neat monster.

The way he's looking at me now. It's the same way he looked at me in the bar. I notice the flirtation again.

I turn away and busy myself with checking that everything is in order.

"If you're considering eliminating the witness..."

"I would have started putting the plastic sheets back up."

"It wouldn't have done you any good."

"Why not?" I ask, turning to watch him carefully now. Does he think he can overpower me? Physical size and muscle mass suggest perhaps he could, but I am stronger and more agile than I look. Years of training will do that to you.

"It seems to me, you have a secret you don't want getting out."

Well duh. And I give him a look to say as much.

"Well so do I."

Is he laughing at me? He's not making the sound, but all the facial expressions seem to say it.

"You're like me, aren't you?" I ask.

"A killer?"

I nod.

"I once was. I've kind of given that up. Found better things to do with my life."

"Is that even possible?"

"You sound hopeful."

I shake my head, "I've always assumed this was a part of who I was, and always will be."

"Is it a need, a compulsion?"

"Yes."

"Then no, I doubt you can get past it. I've known people who killed for the thrill, for the need to take a life. It's not the same. For me it was a job. A job I enjoyed, certainly, but not for the same reason as some of my co-workers. I got paid to ensure that people who needed to die did so in a timely manner."

I can't help but smile. He really does seem so much like me, but there's something in there hiding behind the monster. I just can't see what it is.

"Why did you do it?" I have to know.

"They deserved it."

I'm almost disappointed. The thought of two kills... and he had seemed like such a promising possibility. Still, I should be satisfied that Helen Sherman is no longer free to hunt for innocent victims again. At least I did something worthwhile with my weekend.

But I see what he's hiding now. A conscience. A soul. Something real, something he feels. Not like my code.

I wonder why he tries to hide it.

I glance over my shoulder at the bags containing the parts of Helen's body.

"If you'll excuse me..."

"Of course, you have a body to make disappear. I won't interfere." He turns to leave.

He's really just going to walk away.

And I'm going to let him?

"It was nice meeting you..." He hesitates. He's asking my name again. Even though I gave him an alias last night.

"Dexter."

He smiles and nods, "Nice meeting you Dexter."

And just like that, I'm alone again.

x x x


	2. Don't

x x x

**Killing Time**

x x x

**Disclaimer**: The usual, I don't own anything, nobody said I owned anything, you can't prove I own anything.

**Author's Note**: I have no concrete plans to continue this fic. I feel these two short chapters are quite self-contained on their own. I do have a vague idea involving Miracle Day, but that does require me to see the rest of Dexter before I write it, and THAT requires Netflix to release the last two seasons for viewing in the UK. If you want this fic to continue that badly, I dunno, start a petition to Netflix or something? As if that'd work, they still don't have subtitles on British programs.

**SPOILER WARNING**: CONTAINS HUGE SPOILERS FOR DEXTER UP TO SEASON 5, AND TORCHWOOD UP TO SEASON 3. IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHO DIED IN CHILDREN OF EARTH AND DEXTER SEASON 4, DO NOT READ!

Seriously. I warned you.

x x x

**Chapter 2: "Don't"**

x x x

We all cope with loss in our own ways. I think I'm just beginning to come to terms with mine.

When I first met Rita, she was a good, safe cover for my... particular situation. Serial killers are usually assumed to be lone wolves, not the nice guy with the good girlfriend, helping out with her two kids.

It was safe.

But then I found I liked it. It became real. I would go out of my way to make Rita and the kids happy.

Eventually we got married. I hadn't foreseen that, but it was the right thing to do. Not just for my cover story, not just for her, but for my... feelings isn't really the right word, but I can't think of another one. I don't have feelings... or I didn't think I did until I met her.

I don't now.

I've lost too much, I can't afford to have feelings.

x x x

I'm just getting back into my routine. It's hard, it feels like a chore, but I'm managing.

I arrive at work on time. I'm always on time.

But then as I pass the food truck, and outdoor dining area on my way to the office, I see something... unsettling.

There are two problems with the scene before me.

It's not like Vince Masuka to make people laugh at his jokes, instead of cringing - or in Deb's case telling him to go fuck himself.

And I recognize the man he's talking to.

Now I realize why he's laughing. It's false. Incredibly false. He's humoring Vince, though I don't like to think why.

"Hey, Dexter!" Vince calls, waving me over, "You have got to meet this man."

Jack Harkness stood and held his hand out to me, smiling, "Vince here's just been telling me about the mysterious case of Mr Plastic Wrap and Captain Bloody Underpants."

I don't look at Vince. I don't want him to see how uncomfortable that revelation makes me. That case involved two of my own botched kills. In a way I was lucky. Vince's 'theory' had given me an excuse, a way to wrap up the two deaths nice and neatly. Auto-erotic something I don't want to know about, ending in murder-suicide.

Almost romantic, and if some of the words I caught from Vince on the night were accurate, even fitting considering what Captain Bloody Underpants did to Lumen.

Great. Now I have two people who know the _real_ me, at the same time.

"I hope he hasn't broken your brain." I say to Jack.

"I've heard worse."

"Oh yeah?" Vince asks hopefully.

Jack shakes his head, "Not for the faint of heart, Vince."

Vince squares off at this, hackles raised like a territorial animal, just daring Jack to try to out-do him. To be fair to Vince, pure and unadulterated filth _is_ his home turf.

Jack leans over and whispers something in Vince's ear.

Vince goes green. "I - I have to go."

And he flees the scene, metaphorical tail between his legs.

I don't even want to know what Jack said to him.

Jack's laughing, but it's hollow. There's no soul in it. That spark of humanity I had seen in his eyes before is gone.

What happened to him, since the last time we met? He seems more like me than I am, now.

"So, what are you doing in Miami?" I ask, hoping for something simple, something that doesn't involve blackmail. Not holding out too much hope, but I have to try.

"I came to see you."

Of course you did. Nothing's ever simple. "I have work." I say, indicating the building we were standing right next to. Technically, it's not work, but it does require the lab.

"I'll meet you for lunch."

"I'm busy."

"Tell me when you aren't?"

He's persistent. I really don't want to take the risk that this is blackmail. Reluctantly, I answer, "Tomorrow. Five o'clock. Meet me here."

He nods, and smiles that false smile. This time it looks like it takes more effort than before. "See you then."

x x x

I pick Jack up after work the next day. I drive, and we go to a quiet restaurant which I know my co-workers don't frequent.

Mostly because this place doesn't serve coffee.

Really, who doesn't serve coffee? I may have to look into the owner, they truly must be evil.

"So what did you want?"

He seems uncomfortable. While he did try to order coffee when we got here, I don't think that's the reason. It's something much bigger than coffee, and I get the feeling this is just going to throw my entire life out of whack.

Further than it already is with Harrison to look after, and then this whole situation with Lumen, and Jordan Chase. I really have enough on my plate already.

He glances around the room, before answering, "I want you to kill me."

That seems... unlikely.

"Why?"

"I've done my research, Dexter. Your M.O. matches a case that came up here three years ago. The Bay Harbor Butcher. The murder who only murdered other murderers."

"So what makes you think you qualify?" I ask skeptically, "I operate on a very strict code. They have to deserve it. Anyone who kills bad guys is a good guy in my books."

"And someone who knowingly kills their own grandson?"

Now that... really doesn't sound likely. I thought I had him figured out. He wasn't like me, didn't take pleasure in the kill, only in the elimination of a danger to society. What changed?

"What happened?"

He contemplates this question for just a bit too long, and I see pain in his eyes as he thinks about how to answer it.

"Do you remember what happened two months ago?"

"The only thing I remember of two months ago was coming home to find my wife dead in the bathtub. Murdered twelve hours previous, by a man I had killed two hours before finding her. The rest is a blur."

He makes a strange choking sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Did you hear about the children, all stopping in the street and speaking in unison?"

Only vaguely. "Yes."

"They were going to take the children. Ten percent of the entire population was going to be lost overnight."

That part had seemed the most implausible to me. They had blamed it on everything from terrorists to a prank to a disease to flying saucers. It had seemed so ludicrous that anyone could threaten to take so many like that, but the government had been taken in by it. All the public schools had been herding kids to meeting points, if the sensationalist reporters were to be believed.

It was good that Astor and Cody were being home-schooled during their move from here to their grandparents' home at the time. Even in the likely event it was a hoax, at least they were away from the hysteria.

"I was in a position to stop them." Jack said, as if it was all real and perfectly serious. "But it didn't work. First they killed my partner - along with an entire building full of people - then we found the only way to stop them was by sending a signal back the same way they had communicated with us. Through the children."

Ah, now I see it.

"You keep saying 'we'." A traumatic loss, I can see how he could have imagined it. It sounds like far too tall a tale to be true.

"I know that look." he says, rolling his eyes, "I'm insane, hallucinating, or something. Okay, go and run a search on FBI files. Here are the access codes." He hands me a piece of paper. "You'll want to look for cases in that time frame, with the label '456'. I'll wait."

An offer of evidence. Now that isn't very common from delusional cases. Maybe I should hear him out. "Back here, same time tomorrow."

He nods. I leave.

x x x

The access codes work. The files show a cover-up involving aliens. Actual extra-terrestrial life forms.

Which wanted to abduct our children for... drugs?

I reviewed the footage and files from that week. A week of hell for Jack, by the looks of it.

First his office gets blown up, and one of those organizations that doesn't exist gets hired to kill him and his co-workers. They manage to survive all of that, persuade the government to back off the kill order, and get a chance to attempt to negotiate with these... aliens... only to have them kill a building full of people.

Finally, they figure out a way to kill the aliens using brainwave signals or something, sent through the minds of the children.

But in order to do so they had to sacrifice one child who would be the center of the resonance.

Jack Harkness's ten-year-old grandson.

Funny, he doesn't look old enough to have grandkids. His 'daughter' looks older than him.

And just how did he manage to survive that building full of poison when all those other people, including his 'partner' (more like lover, the video footage makes that perfectly clear), didn't?

I would have to hear him out, if only to try to understand. These are official FBI files. There's no way he could be planting false evidence to convince me of a fairytale. Unless he works for the FBI himself. Highly unlikely, though worth a look.

It's been half an hour now, and I can confirm that he has never worked for the FBI... though he has been to America before... in the nineteen twenties.

I really need to talk to him.

x x x

It's not easy to juggle a pack of serial-killer-rapists, their only surviving victim in all her vengeful murderous glory, a ten-month-old son, and a day job. Throw in something like Jack Harkness, and I haven't slept in the last two days.

Still, Harrison has his favorite nanny for the night. Lumen is safely at the house, tucking into the Chinese takeout I brought her, and Jordan Chase is hopefully running around like a headless chicken, trying to figure out what happened to all his friends.

I have the night free, and all my tools in my bag, just in case.

I arrive at the restaurant to find Jack already waiting.

"Well?" he asks.

"Your story checks out. Except for the many parts where you should have died."

"I haven't died since that week. Not physically, at least." He looks at me with real pain clear as day in his eyes. "I can't do it. I went through a suicidal phase in the seventies, but this time I just can't. That's why I came to you."

"You lost someone you loved. Lashed out with the only weapon to hand. It is a shame that weapon was a child, but if the story is true it was the loss of one child or millions. You did the right thing."

"Then why does it hurt so much?" There are tears in his eyes.

"Because you're human. At least emotionally. More than can be said for me."

"I can't stay dead. But it's so quiet when I am. I can't think, so it doesn't hurt."

"That's quite a secret to be sharing."

"I guess that makes us even."

"You wouldn't like my usual methods. I prefer to make my victims see their crimes before they die."

He looks away.

"It's a good system." I say carefully, "Just not for you, I think."

"Please."

"Why can't you do it yourself?" He doesn't answer, so I offer my best guess. "It's because you think you deserve to suffer?"

"I don't want you to deviate from your usual system." he says, "You're right, I need to pay for what I did."

"I would forgive you... but if you can't forgive yourself. I suppose I can do this for you."

He smiles. I think that's the first time I've seen a _real_ smile on his face. "Thank you."

x x x

Well this is a first.

A man I believe, from the evidence, to be a good and decent man, on my table, with my full knowledge of the facts.

I chose the hotel room he was staying in, for convenience. It's small, which makes it easier to cover with plastic sheeting, and it has a table that's just the right size for a kill. Good tables are sometimes so hard to find.

"How do you plan to do it?" Jack asks, from where he lies, tied down to the table with duct tape and plastic wrap, like all my previous victims. He appears perfectly calm. Almost eager, even.

"I tend to prefer a knife, precise strike to the chest. Slice clean through the aorta. But if you have any requests, now would be the time."

"No, that sounds good." He seems almost happy. "Ten minutes."

"What?"

"Ten minutes, after a death like that, I'll wake up. Usually. It can vary."

"I'm still skeptical about that, you know."

"I'm sure." He laughs. It sounds sincere.

"Ten minutes." I nod.

He gasps with surprise when I cut his cheek to take the blood sample.

"Oh, I'm keeping this."

"I didn't think you were the trophy type." He seems amused by this, though I'm not entirely sure why.

"Appearances can be deceiving. Are you ready?"

"Yes." He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then looks up to see me standing over him with the knife in my hand. "Please."

His eyes are alight. He's almost breathless.

It stuns me how much he wants this. How much he needs this.

Just like me.

I raise the knife overhead, take aim carefully... and plunge it into his chest.

x x x

Fifteen minutes have passed. I don't think he's going to wake.

If it was all a lie, a hoax, then he deserved to die. If it was true...

Sixteen minutes.

Jack Harkness gasps for breath, lurching as if to sit up, but he's still tied down by the plastic wrap.

It takes him two seconds to realize where he is, and then he allows himself to relax, falling back onto the table and laughing. "Oh, I needed that."

I shake my head, almost amused. "I've only been the cause of that expression on the faces of women."

He turns his head and gives me an amused look, "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain. Everyone thinks I hate this dying thing."

"You don't?"

"It feels like a kind of release. I can let go of life for a time. Yes, what it does to my body is painful, but what it does to my mind is worth it." I frown at that, and he continues quickly. "Not all the time... just..."

"When you feel like you deserve it." I frown. "Is that what I do? Give my victims... relief?" The very thought disgusts me.

He snorts. "If you're trying to avoid something, it will not be enjoyable when it happens."

Well that's good to know. "I wouldn't even touch that remark with Masuka's lab tools."

"So, are you going to untie me?"

It takes a moment for me to realize what this means. I killed a man, and there's no body to dispose of. He'll just get up and walk away. No corpse, no evidence. Even the blood isn't really a problem, because it's the DNA of a person who is still out there being alive.

I kind of like it.

All the thrill of the kill, none of the mess to clean up afterwards.

I take the knife, still red from Jack's blood, and cut the plastic wrap off him. "If you ever feel the need to do this again..."

"I'll know where to find you."

He sits up, facing me, and for the first time I regret my choice to have my victims naked under their restraints. It's usually so convenient, because I don't have to dispose of bloodied clothes as well... but now.

Nose to nose with a man I'm starting to realize I barely know... and there's that scent again, overpowering even the coppery tang of blood in the air.

I turn away.

"You should wash up. The shower's just in there."

He nods, and without a word retreats to the tiny hotel bathroom.

By the time he returns, I've already taken down the plastic, and made sure the room is spotless. It may not be necessary, but it's still habit.

On the bright side, I can go straight home to my son after this. No detour to the Gulf Stream to drop off body parts.

I'm thankful to see Jack has dressed again when he emerges from the bathroom.

Just because I got off on murdering him... doesn't mean I have any inclination to get off on anything else with him.

I have all the bloody plastic sheeting in a bag. I'm ready to leave.

"I should just..."

He nods, "Of course." A pause, a breath. "Thank you."

I turn to leave.

"You know, Dexter." I glance back over my shoulder. "I consider you a good friend."

I look around the spotless non-crime-scene of a hotel room, where I just killed the man speaking to me. Then open the door to leave, only glancing back to say to him simply...

"Don't."

x x x


End file.
